I’ve never recovered from my first experience with “The Storyteller.” In fact, over the years that first experience ruined a friendship. The dumb thing is, he didn’t realize I saved him from getting beat up by the other guy in our group….
Who is The Storyteller? It’s not just one golfer, but a golfer personality. He’s the golfer who has to tell you a story, no matter what is happening.
Stories can be fine, but it’s the way the story is told that’s the problem. The Storyteller starts up a story right at the beginning of my pre-shot routine. At first I stop my pre-shot routine and politely acknowledge him, nod, respond. I engage him because, well, I’m polite. I wait for him realize I’m trying to hit, and either stop or pause his story. But he doesn’t stop. When there’s a tiny pause I quickly start my pre-shot routine again. He doesn’t get the message to stop. He keeps going. So I politely pause again, acknowledge him, nod, pretend to laugh. At this point I’m thinking I have to just let this bugger talk all the way through my routine to my shot. Otherwise I’ll never be able to even hit the damn ball. We’ll be on the tee forever.
So I decide to just do my routine and hit, all the while I’m listening about the time The Storyteller was in a biker bar in Iowa. The shot does not go well because I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing. I’m focused on how irritating and clueless this bastard is, who can’t see I’m trying to play f**ing golf here. It just doesn’t register.
Thankfully, my horrid tee shot has now been hit; sliced into the woods or in some hazard. I don’t care about losing a $5 golf ball at this point. I’m glad the shot ended. After watching my horrid tee shot finish The Storyteller continues to talk.
Oh my God. He hasn’t hit his tee shot yet.
At this point I’m looking for a revolver, a noose, or maybe some razor blades. A samurai sword will do. I no longer want to live. Where’s the cyanide?
The Storyteller continues with his story while making practice swings. He tees the ball up, continues talking. Then he finally gets over the ball and I’m absolutely thrilled that he stops talking as he addresses the ball. The silence is so wonderful. It’s orgasmic.
There’s a pause. What is happening?
Just when it looks like he is going to pull the trigger, he backs off and turns to me and starts telling me about the bartender in the biker bar in Iowa. I can’t believe this. Why can’t he hit the ball then talk? Then we can walk and talk. Instead, I’m trapped. I can’t get away. I’m a hostage. Kidnapped. I can’t start walking down the fairway because he hasn’t hit his tee shot yet. We’re only a twosome but I nervously look back to see the foursome behind us is getting irritated.
He finally hits his shot. Thank God. But there’s a problem. It was a bad shot (no sh*t). He’s going to take a mulligan, but first, he must continue the story.
I’m livid. Having some kind of panic attack. I’m considering walking off the course. After all it would be really easy to do at this point. We were on the first tee.
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